The Word of the Beetle
Tavern Hall at The Beetle's Bounty Tavern, The Fetters ---- "My tongue is as weighted as the Crown's, Master Beetle," Rowena bats smoothly, lips twisting up to a side with a sly smile. "If you can aid us in unravelling the mystery of what ails /your/ people and the rest of the Kingdom, you can be certain that you will be recognized appropriately for your part in the deciphering." Encircling the handle with slender fingers, she strokes it thoughtfully a moment before fishing with her left into her belt. "Just as certain you'll be wise to be that dead men can't pay for their ale." A wink. Her left hand emerges, holding a little glass vial and cork into the dim light. Shaking it once, she pops the cork and dips it into the water. Smirking in the wake of something, the Valorian guard averts his eyes to scan the room. Muri enters the tavern on quick steps, but her attention is behind her. "Ah seen de Royal 'ealer, 'ere, Messer," she says to someone following her. "She's lookin' fer a man nam'd Beetle, Ah thin's. Mayhaps our knowin' c'n 'elp each ovfer." She holds the door for him. "Cor, Ah'm glad ye foun' me. Twas afeard t'goed further alones." Taran nods, following close behind her. The bard is at present emphasizing his size, an unusual posture for him, and the cloaked scarecrow visibly looms over most people near him. It would seem he's being Muri's bodyguard. The barman considers Rowena carefully, black eyes watching that hand closely as it moves, and he nods, slowly. Sliding into a seat across from the Duchess, he nods, slowly. "Ayuh, I know 'im," he repeats. "Yeh see th' 'orse out there?" He nods to the door. "That beast b'longs t' ole Septus. 'e wen' away fer awhile, but I think 'e's back now." He doesn't seem to notice Muri and Taran. The vial swallows a little gulp of the seemingly pure liquid, gets wedged anew with the cork, and is slipped back into wherever precisely it came from. In place of the vial is now one of the healer's fingers, hovering just over the surface and oscillating from side to side in long strokes over the rippling water. It must be very interesting, the contents of this mug, because Rowena gazes more intensely into its shallow depth than most people look into the pleading eyes of a lover. "Sshhhh..." She breathes and parts her lips to utter something very softly to herself, then absently murmurs "We gave a gift to that horse...in lieu of that, mayhap he owes us a favor." Her finger comes to stand very still, pushing the limits of the surface tension without bursting through. Muri shuts the door behind Taran and gazes around the room, her eyes lighting on the Duchess. "Dere she be," she says, voice taking on a tremble. "She musta found Messer Beetle." The sound of a familiar name catches her ear and she takes a tentative step forward. "Did 'e say Septus?" She glances up at Taran and twists her fingers nervously. "Does we goed o'er, or does we waits? Ah dunno'd dis courtly stuffs lahk ye do, Messer." Taran nods. "He did, and we do," he says quietly. "Duchesses die as quickly from arrows as any streetwalker. This is not the best of locales to linger in." He smiles slightly at her. "As to courtly things, I think if she wanted them she would be...anywhere but here." The barkeep laughs hollowly, rising once more to his feet as another customer calls his attention. "I wouldn't coun' on 't, iffin I was yeh, Ladeh. But yeh can 'ope." With an uninterested shrug, he goes back to serving ale. Rowena's brows pinch together in earnest thought and a fine line of moisture springs forth across her forehead. Her body sits here, moving, talking amidst the tavern banter, but her mind has drifted to places unseen. "Hail...blessed be thy..bestow onto...ever...your faithful servant." Some of the prayer is audible, the rest lost behind the mumbling lips and their shroud. Breath catching in her throat at the end of those words, she stiffens her hand into steadiness. The guard is torn now between watching her and giving brief, vague gestures to the newly arrived woman and her...vertically gifted companion. There are some things of purity that even the filthiest of filth cannot keep from rising when summoned. So it is then, that a bit of additional 'Light' is called to illuminate the situation. Muri blushes bright pink over her blue mask at the placement of "Duchess" and "Streetwalker" in the same sentence, but nods and takes a bracing breath. She steps directly to the guard and gives him a curtsey. "G'eve, m'lord," she says. "Ah 'opes ye 'memberin' me from las' night. Ah was a speakin' t'de Duchess dere 'bouts de thin's we'd knowd 'bout de sickness folks is sufferin' from." She glances at the Royal Healer, her brow lifting as she watches the woman work her Light. "Ah'm wonderin' if'n we could speaks t'er? Dis be de ofver one Ah were tellin' 'er 'bouts las' night." She tries to smile and look nonchalant, but she's trembling to be sure. Taran grins at the guard. "Well met," he says. "When her grace is finished communing with the infinite, or perhaps while - it matters little - we should exchange the tales of how we've come to this locale. I'll wager you came by a different road than we did." It's not going well, the effort with the Light going on over at the bar. But it *is* going on, at least. Maybe the product isn't the best it could be, but it is something. The other guests in the tavern seem to be mainly ignoring what's going on, though Rowena and her escorts do get a look or two, and so does Taran, who's about as obvious as an ent in an herb garden. "Ah thought ye were in th'room." The guard chides softly to Muri, maybe feeling a bit embarrassed himself that he somehow missed the passing of the little healer earlier. Looking up then to Taran, he arches a brow. "We came from Light's Reach, along the Imperial Thoroughfare and into Lightholder. The plan was to pass into Freehaven, Tradesmeet and Sweetwater from there, but...a little 'bug' advised us to travel otherwise. And 'ere we are." A pulse, too faint to draw attentions, just lively enough to betray its presence, tremors the water beneath her fingertip. It grows warmer, marginally, not from heat but /promise/. And then it is gone. A sigh of disappointment leaks through the cotton drapery that shields half Rowena's face and she opens her eyes to look pointedly in Muri's direction. And then uplifts them to nod at the taller man. "Aye, find yourselves a seat - or lean." She glances off in the wandered direction of Beetle. "Join us for a drink. Master Beetle." Her throat clears, commanding back the lost attention. Slowly, skeptically, she lifts the mug to her lips for a sip. May the stomach cease its craving rumbles. Muri scratches the back of her head and shrugs. "Ah lef' early dis morn, m'lord," she says. "T'look fer Messer Taran 'ere. 'e found me, thank Light after nearly gittin' t'places Ah'd lahk as not seen ag'in." She swallows and glances at Taran again, blinking, then seeing Rowena's gaze, drops into an awkward curtsey and stands closer to the Royal Healer. "G'eve, yer Grace," she says. "Tis right fine t'seen ye. Did Ah 'eard rightly dat Septus Black's about?" Taran sighs briefly. "Yes, yes," he murmurs. "You're a very good guard. Have a biscuit." He shakes his head. "We followed a trail of manure. Hardly the material one normally associates with Valorians." "But a very noteworthy manure, from what Miss Woodhill tells me," Rowena murmurs after swallowing down a few gulps of the water. "Skillfully enhanced defecations that one might associate with an alchemist." Quite the table talk. Wrinkling her nose to the water's taste, she takes a deep breath. "Master Beetle here says he knows Mister Black. Says that's his horse, outside." Then, tilting back her head, Rowena chugs the rest of the water. The guard glares at Taran for a moment before casting a similar expression over the other bar occupants. Muri shakes her head "Yer braver den me, yer Grace," she murmurs. "Anythin' not boil'd 'r brew'd haint safe, Ah 'spects." She sighs. "If'n dat's 'is 'orse, den mayhaps 'e's near?" She looks up. "Mayhaps a room? Or does 'e live nearby?" Her gaze falls again, downcast to the floor. "Dere's lahkly a barn or such dey turn de soil mender. Gotta 'ave big bins if'n dey's addin' straw an' wot's makin' folk sick t'gether, den bailin' in up in bags." Taran mmms. "It will be interesting to discover whether intent or negligence is behind the effect," he says. "It is the shadow district. Quality control is hardly an issue at the best of times, never mind when dealing with such earthy matters." "I can deworm myself later," Rowena smiles to Muri, knowing well what unseen things probably creeped about in her glass. If Light failed to purge it, then a bit of rosemary and cloves will do just fine. "Let us hope it is ignorant negligence that the man can honestly plead in this circumstance. I'd be sorry to part some heads from their shoulders." On that note, "Ale Master!" Rowena addresses, a bit more loudly this time, thudding her mug's bottom on the counter top. "Show my friends and I to more private quarters. I'd like to find more reasons to show to you my appreciations." The Guard reddens in the ears, staring hard into the back of Rowena's skull. "Your Grace..." He mumbles, glancing to and fro at the surrounding ears. Muri's eyes widen and she jumps as Rowena thumps her mug. She glances at Taran and the guard, then to the barman. "A mug o'mead, if'n ye please," she says. "Afore we goed, dat is." She chews her lower lip, and slips a coin on the counter quickly. Taran blinks. "And suddenly I am quite grateful your fiancee has decided to vanish for a while," he notes mildly. "But I would sooner be about the hunt. I would have this business done, so I can go home and see how Zia is." The barman grudgingly gets down a couple mugs, no doubt fully aware of that worms comment. Every inch of him irritation - but suppressed nonetheless, thankyouverymuch Duchess - he pours the required ale and mead and dishes them out. "Private, yeh say?" he asks, and nods to the stairs. A bit of a sigh. "Foller me." Wheeling on a heel, Rowena alters her lean on a single elbow and dips a sneaky brow in Taran's direction. She whispers "It is easier to 'hunt' willing prey, Songbird. My fiancee would respect that mantra well enough. He himself has followed it, for how else could a rampaging wildcat snare the vastly superior tricks of a mongoose?" Straightening her shoulders as Beetle comes around, she sobers her persona into one more befitting of a Lady. "Sir, you mentioned Septus had a horse. Might also you tell us more of the man's holdings if we follow you to safer doors?" She takes one step away from the counter, a move that lands her against a familiar breastplate. Muri nods to the barkeep, a bit of sympathy in her eyes. "Thankee, Messer," she murmurs, then takes a sip. "If'n 'is place tis far, den knowin' w'ere 'e makes 'is menders twill do well also." She smiles, although her friendly gesture is masked by cloth. She tarries, waiting for her betters to lead. Taran grins. "Easier. But rarely more fun." He nudges Muri ahead of him. "Go on, little one. I have armor enough for both our backs, and you know you must be my Reason. I am liable to break things if impatient." ---- Inn at The Beetle's Bounty Tavern, The Fetters ---- The barkeep vanishes up the stairs ahead of the others, and even as he goes he draws a key from his shirtfront and offers it to Rowena. Nodding to a door, he says, "That'll be 'bout th' bes' I c'n offer yeh. But 's private 'nough, aye. I'd be... ah... much 'bliged iffin yeh'd return th' key t' me when yeh're done." Nudging the door open, he nods them in. 'In' is not much better than the rest of the inn... but it is better. It's like a little misplaced parlor, complete with hard wooden benches and an overturned crate for a table between them. Its purpose for being here is probably best not questioned, but here it is. Eyes crinkling with a smile, Rowena waves her hand at the key. "Oh, I've already acquired a room for myself, thankye," her head turns faintly, angling towards the figure of a guard standing vigilant in front of a vacant room. "I'm more interested in acquiring *you*. If only for a few moments. I'm sure that your staff can serve in your absence and if a patron finds complaint, I'll reimburse you for the lost tab, eh?" Fingers entwined tightly together, she waits, hopeful. Muri sighs and sets out before Taran, up the stairs and then hesitating in the hall, her mug still in hand. "If'n ye's got me fer Reason, Messer," she muses. "Den we's bofth in trouble." She hesitates at the door, unfortunately for the barkeep, barring his escape back down the stairs...by accident. Really. Taran smiles slightly. "But people around us are in less trouble," he says quietly. "I am worried about Zia. Breaking a few limbs would be very relaxing." Beetle closes the door again, latching it with a click of the key in the lock, and stifles a sigh. "Very well, then." Hands shove into pockets. "I s'pose yeh'll be leadin' th' way afta all." "My gratitude is yours," Rowena bows, creating a brief symphony of jingling mail and stretched leather in the process. When she straightens out, she pivots on heel and signs to the awaiting guard while the one standing with the group simply keeps silent, herding them along. A slip of the key, a click of the lock, and the gateway to the Lady's quarters is opened. Inside, things are as they were left. The bed is riddled with lumps and bumps hidden beneath the shroud of the snaplizard hide coat. A mostly empty satchel rests at the foot of the bed. The smell of sage - left smoldering in a little porcelain dish has overpowered the other odd scents of the rooms, beckoning struggling windpipes to open. A safeguard, a small comfort. Muri follows the Beetle and Duchess, finding a place to stand, out of the way, preferably. She loops a strand of hair behind her ear as she sniffs the air. She sighs and shakes her head worriedly. "Ah'm sorry dis takin' more a'pace, Messer," she says. "We'll git back t'de Missus Zia soon. Back at de Refuge, she be safe from all dis an' c'n recovers. Ah'm 'opin' we're able t'fin' dis Septus Black an' a cure a'fore *we* succumb." She turns to look at the barman, waiting. Taran taps the cloth over the lower half of his face. "If these are not enough, then Septus had better hope whatever he has done kills me before I finish doing everything I can think of to him." He shakes his head. "I am too temperamental - I do not like leaving Zia without a healer. I will watch the door, and you can be diplomatic and sociable for both of us." Beetle follows Rowena inside--a little reluctantly--and though no tension was visible in his features before, its absence is visible now with Taran's decision to wait outside. He remains on his feet within the room, standing at attention just inside the door with his eyes on the Duchess. "What c'n I do fer yeh?" Well, that was easy. Once all bodies are ushered inside, and the tall one slips out, the guard takes his place at the door and *click* goes the latch behind him. One hand rests calmly on the pommel of his sword. "You can tell us more about Septus Black, for starters. Where might we find him? How does he take to visitors?" Rowena moves deeper into the room, whisking the coat off the bed to reveal her goodies underneath. One item of particular interest is a glass jar. Closed. Filled with long, silvery bugs. Muri tilts her head and watches the Royal Healer's actions with interest. She glances at the barkeep, then back to the jar of bugs, a single brow arching. She sips her mead and remains silent, but attentive. Beetle attends Rowena's movements with the alertness of any cat under threat of water, and fidgets uncomfortably at the click of the lock. "I dunno th' man well," he says. "Jus' a li'l. Comes inta the 'Bounty sometimes. Owns th' farm 'cross th' way." "From your encounters with Mister Black, would you say that he is a reputable man?" Rowena sits, shrinking her height to a less threatening stance at the edge of the bed, facing their subject of questioning. Her left hand ventures aside, feeling blindly for the satchel. Muri nods. "Across de way, ye say," she murmurs. "Ah'll git some soil samples in de morn fer us." She looks into her mug and then to the barkeep. "Ah 'spects ye seen 'im makin' deals a time 'er two in yer 'alls." She glances at Rowena and falls silent again. Beetle shrugs. "More an' some, less an' others," he decides. "Jus' tryin' t' beat out a livin'. Like th' res' o' us." "All right, Master Beetle," Rowena's voice shifts into one more gentle her own tension fading. From the satchel, she pulls a wrinkled piece of parchment that has something colorful drawn on it. "One more question from me, unless Mistress Woodhill has anything to add." Leaning forward, she extends the parchment to him with a little nod of encouragement. "Have you ever seen this picture before? Maybe in a book, or...as a tattoo?" Scribbled across the paper is a hasty drawing. A red orb - a moon, perhaps - sits beneath the grip of a black, skeletal hand. Muri shakes her head. "Ah thin' we're knowin' where's t'look nex', yer Grace," she says. "If'n 'e live close..." She pauses, glancing at the man. "'ow many 'round dese parts come down wid de cough, Messer? Ye musta noted it...an' 'ow /ye/ farin' o'late?" There's suspicion in her voice, as if she's noticed a disconnection between story and location. Beetle blinks at the picture, and doesn't even have to fake his confusion. "What in th' name o' th' Light is *that*?" he asks, bewildered. His attention is drawn away by Muri's question, however, and he nods to the door. "Look outside," he says - presumably outside the inn, not out in the hall. "Yeh'll see. 's only luck that I've not got 't yet. I 'spects I will 'fore long." Pursing her lips together, Rowena whistles a note to herself and retracts the picture, folding it hastily back up. "Ne'er you worry your mind over it, then," She mutters and stuffs it back into the pack. Falling silent in thought, she watches the exchange between Beetle and Muri. Manure. Dirt. Farm. Tomorrow would be a fine day indeed to don the old, wool dress. Yes. Bending aside, she peeks into the pack to ensure that her clothes are in fact still there. Muri frowns slightly, still suspicious. "Ah 'spects tis 'cause ye spends yer time mostly inside," she says. "An' mayhaps de wind goed from 'ere o'er de fields 'stead o'de ofver way rounds. Still..." She sighs. "We're tryin' t'stop de sickness, Messer. Thin's don' gotta go badly fer ye nor any ofver, if'n we c'n solve dis quick lahk. We're gonna need some thins, stuffs from yer larder, Ah 'spects. Mostly glass jars an' candles if'n ye c'n spare." She glances at Rowena. "Anyfin' else we needs fer de soil testin'? Ah haint brought no alchemy-wares. Beetle's eyes widen a little. "I can't spare no food," he says. "'s 'spensive, an' I barely scrape by as is." He considers. "Jars, aye, those I c'n give yeh. Candles, aye. Food is scarce 'nough wi'out givin' it away t' non-payin' cus'mers." "Neither did I," Rowena confesses lightly, nodding towards the door. The guard frees the latch. "But I won't be lingering here long enough to do the testing. Instead, I suggest we return to Lightholder... possibly farther south than that. I know where there is ample equipment for such...creativity to take place. Let us then take some samples, have an eloquent conversation with Mister Black, and be on our way. I understand that your friend is in hurried need to return to the Refuge. There's no reason to dwell in the hive of the matter longer than necessary. We'll be back, I'm sure, but...best to be out of harm's way until then." "Thank you for your time, Master Beetle. You'll be in our prayers." Something more inviting is taken from the satchel next - a little coin purse. Rowena tosses it to the man. "An equal reward to those who can offer any more valuable information." Muri nods in relief. "Aye, yer Grace," she says. "Messer Taran's afeard t'leave d'Missus alone longs. 'e stays fer my sake, t'keeps me safe. Ah c'n meet ye at de fence come mornin' an' git dem samples. Ah'm 'opin' we c'n find de mixin' bins...if'n 'e knowd wot all 'e's got goin', dere's a chance 'im own fields taint got de stuff. Bes' t'be sure we got de right source, aye? Ah'll travel where ye needs me." She curtsey's again. "May *She* watch yer dreams, yer Grace." She watches the coin purse sail in the air. "Wot all we needs we'd be a'payin' fer, Messer. An' food haint nuffin' we're needin' fer wot all we're seekin'. Yer larder's safe, e'en from a cook's lookin' fer purty jars." She winks at the man. Beetle reaches out a hand to deftly catch the sailing coinpurse, murmuring a word of thanks to Rowena. He smiles a bit in return to Muri's wink, and nods. "Thank yeh kindleh," he says simply, to both of them. "Luck 'n' Light go with yeh." Turning, he moves out the door. His footsteps can be heard on the stairs in his passing. "*She*?" Rowena questions, watching the man go, her shoulders tensing anew. "Aye, a treasure hunt this has turned into. I want a man posted at said 'windows' to watch those fields tonight. And watch our Beetle friend. If he hurries himself across the way, we can be sure that he does more for this Septus than pour his ale." "Aye, Yer Grace," bows the guard, clapping a fist to his chest. Taking her words as a sign of dismissal, he next offers a bow of the head to Muri. "Rest well, Missus. We'll be seein ye in the morning." "Yes, where will you stay? I've room here," Rowena offers. Muri is in a half turn toward the door when Rowena questions her. "*She* o'de Syladris," she says. "*She* dat comes on wings an' gives wings an' fergives wot we dun wrong." She looks down and fiddles with her fingers. "Dey sayin' *She* be a drag'n. D'lady Celeste dun ride 'Er once, Ah thin's." She gestures to icon's on the Duchess's arms. "Ye wear 'Er well." She blushes. "Messer Taran an' Ah's got rooms in anofver part o'de Fetters. Ah couldnae thin' o'troublin' ye. We'll come first light...assumin' Ah'm not de one directin' us...Ah gits los'. Me thanks, doh, fer yer thinkin'." Rowena's cheeks mirror the flush and she looks to the bracers as though she'd forgotten they were there. "Ah, yes, *She*. I have heard a great deal about Her. Heard a bit From Her, more than I would've liked. Most definitely Shared with Her more than I...well. That is neither here nor there, as he's run off to tend to his scaly...friend." Nostrils twitching, Rowena sniffs and shakes her head. "As we were now. Yes. Very well! I'll meet you on the morrow." Standing in a state more flustered than she'd entered, the Duchess crosses the room to offer Muri help in opening the door while working to unfasten one of the smug little dragon heads. "Have a safe passage. Thank you again for your cooperation." Muri blinks, confusion in her eyes, maybe a little fear, a flash before she looks down to the wood flooring once more. "Beggin' yer pa'don, yer Grace," she says. "Dinnae mean 'arm. Ah only means t'elps." She swallows, adjusts her pack, and heads out the door. "Light keep ye." She nods to Taran and hastens down the stairs. ---- Return to Season 8 (2008) Category:Logs